


under the summer sun

by miehczyslaw



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book Spoilers, Canon - Book, F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, Metaphors, Romance, Unbeta'd, reminder that bev's love for bill is as valid and real as ben's love for her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 13:27:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15462384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miehczyslaw/pseuds/miehczyslaw
Summary: “Your words are what I appreciate most Bill, they fill the silence in my bruises, soothing and magic. Please never doubt your words.”





	under the summer sun

**Author's Note:**

> i dont have any problem with benverly, just to clarify, but i read the novel a thousand years ago when i was a pre-teen and fell in love with billverly and when i saw the remake of 2017 last year i confirmed that theyre still my moon and stars on this fandom. i kinda want to write richie/bev or bill/richie in the future as well bc im a dumbass who loves the most impopular rare pairings oh well..
> 
> tw for _very brief_ mentions of child domestic abuse (beverly's father)  & underage sex ( _that_ scene in the book, u know which one), nothing graphic and/or explicit tho.

It’s as if the sun was a light bulb off.

Because finally after so much (suffering and fear and _wehavetobebraveornobodyelsewillbe_ ) IT is gone. Forever, she hopes.

Derry’s more dangerous terror no longer exists— just like a forgotten horror story under the bed that accumulates dust on its broken pages. So, of course the Losers' worries also vanish. _Almost, almost_.

(The most recent bruise on her arm still hurts, Bev wants a cigarrette). But honestly, Beverly never thought she could see that day, live until its arrival. And still there she is, surrounded by her friends-found family, while they throw stones at the garbage of the Barrens pretending they’re cowboys from the old west, or gangsters or— _heroes_ , maybe.

She did not pay much attention to the moment they decided the game.

In her hands there are two or three pebbles and beyond, next to Silver— _a_ _silver bullet to kill a werewolf_ — lies her backpack, the one with the most important object in her life— possibly until then, the shirt of the Great Bill.

That pledge she received at the end of their fight at the 29 on Neibolt Street with all the shame of the world. That pledge she received when Bill saw her (and “o-oh hey, B-e-ev i-i-s-...”) like a girl, when everyone saw her as such. And Bev blushes while she remembers, but makes no effort to avoid it either.

She likes that feeling. Of being loved.

 _Of being loved good. Of being loved safe_. Of being loved — not like by his father.

She rebukes herself for that, unintentionally.

Because she’s only eleven years old for God sake, no adult approves that she feels that kind of things at such an early age, even if— even if they cannot put themselves in her place since _they are not her_. Much less they know ‘Stuttering Bill’ like she does.

And _he is good_ , more than good. He’s a leader who rises bravely in the face of adversity, despite the death of his brother and the lack of affection of his negligent parents. He’s a strong, sweet, dedicated boy with frozen hell eyes that warm Beverly's insides whenever he sees her.

Bill is just himself and he makes her fall in love with him more and more with every word or action without even being aware. Beverly longs to change that situation, due to recent events (to what happened in the darkness of the sewers...) and since they were in need of doing _that_.

Her hopes rises like fireworks and.

She thinks: ‘Maybe I have a chance with him. Maybe it's worth fighting for him.’

(Fighting is always worth it—)

And what better way to show her feelings than returning him his precious shirt, which she couldn’t give him before. Actually, there is a huge possibility that Bill has forgotten already that he gave it to her, he owns many shirts that are almost identical or better. But.

Deep down Bev believes that gesture meant something, something positive. Bill is not giving away his shirts to all the girls who cross his path, after all. The Turtle save her from that ugly possibility.

Does he returns her feelings, perhaps?

His words of melted sugar, those that he whispered to her in the sewers, she still remembers them. As clear as if she were reliving the moment— they are warm.

“I love you, Big Bill,” she mumbles without paying attention around, and sighs enraptured ( _because she’s only eleven years old for God sake_ , and her heart is made of roses plucked from the dirt).

She does not realize, at first, of the silence that that phrase— small, innocent, _very dangerous_ — provokes. She does not realize, at first, that Bill is right in front of her with his jaw open, about to touch her shoulder but without achieving it, without being able to question her if she feels tired or wants to play something else, neither.

Then.

Bev looks up, finding those perfect blue eyes looking at her, ocean without water, and releases something like a wounded’s bird little cry.

And nononononono.

_He has heard me!_

There’s no escape, and she cannot decipher whether Bill’s silence is positive or negative. If he’s going to reject her, or embrace her. Or—

“Hey, Bevvie! I think you've confused my name with the one of my good friend right here, although it was obvious that you would fall under my charms sooner or later, sweetheart.” Richie teases her, breaking the uncomfortable atmosphere with one of his nonsense comments, and laughs.

Bev feels her face burn.

(There is fire in her freckled milky skin).

For the first time in the afternoon she throws one of her pebbles, failing in her attempt to hit Richie in the stomach. _Beverly never fails_.

“Stop making fun of me Tozier!” and everything returns to normal.

Or at least that’s what the boys apparent: Richie, Eddie, Stan and Mike. Beverly notices that Ben is somewhat down, but she can’t ask him anything about it— he likes her, _she knows_ , she’s sorry, _he knows that as well_. Bill, on the contrary, is thoughtful, so much that he doesn’t even want to ride Silver to play to The Lone Ranger at Mike’s suggestion.

And Beverly knows too... he doesn’t have to express it directly, her words have really affected him.

 _Ah, crap_.

She must remedy this, it doesn’t matter if she has to lie and say ‘it was a joke’, whatever, she wants back the cheerful-somewhat-sad and carefree Bill Denbrough.

Her opportunity is presented when the rest of the Losers retire at noon, to go to their homes to have lunch and recover strength. Bev stumbles over Silver, while Bill cleans it with a rag. He’s oblivious to her presence, for sure.

He’s usually the last to leave (his house is too cold— even though it's summer).

Beverly inhales and exhales several times, and she hears with perfect clarity the ‘boom, boom’ of her frantic heart. She’s sure that she is going to collapse on the floor soon to never get up again. But she must be brave, _she’s brave_.

“I have to talk to you about something!” She almost squeaks.

And as she supposed, she takes Bill off guard. He jumps and ends up falling on his ass, breaking a few twigs.

“Bill! Are you okay?”

“B-Bev, you’re s-s-till he-e-e-re,” Bill says nervously. Beverly offers him a hand in apology despite her nerves, but he ignores her, and stands up alone. _And it hurts_. “I th-h-ought tha-a-t E-E-Eddie would a-cc-o-omp-pany you h-home.”

Right. They had agreed that, although in the end it was Stan who accompanied him and not her. Bev suddenly feels very stupid.

Why Bill has so much power over her? How can she decide to throw away her life so easily to please him, to see him happy?

“He’s worth it,” she whispers to herself.

(He’s worth absolutely everything.)

“W-w-what?”

“Bill,” she stares at him, and ignores Bill’s question, ignores the blush on her own cheeks, ignores her wild heartbeats that scream and kick everything in that moment. “About what happened in the sewers... no, before that, in Neibolt Street, I..., I’m...” _I love you, please let me keep loving you even if you don’t love me back_. “I...” Bill looks at her without understanding, and to be such a clever boy he doesn’t catch a single clue uh? Beverly starts to sweat.

_Come on, say it Bevvie, SAY IT!_

“I... I wanted to thank you for lending me your shirt on that occasion, I wanted to give it back to you!” she lies. And silence reigns.

It’s not one of those silences they always have the honor of sharing, no, it’s... different. Embarrassing. Tense.

Bev immediately regrets saying something _so absurd_. Richie is a terrible influence.

Yes, she wants to thank him, but not here. It’s ironic that she fears more to confess her feelings than to face a monster out of space determined to devour and kill children. IT would laugh at her. Bill, on the other hand, limits himself to scrutinize her carefully.

Everything lies in her accidental words of the morning, which escaped her involuntarily— as traitors.

The thing is.

She loves him, _she loves him so much_. She is able to go to the moon back and forth, to go to hell and endure it, all for him. She doesn’t need anything in return, just a little of understanding. It’s enough for her if Bill repeats his confession from the sewers, just one more time.

(It's too much.)

Bev looks at her torn boots, unable to hold his gaze. Already predisposed to run and not have to see him in, preferably, forever. She thinks that’s fine, a small calloused hand on hers changes her mind about it.

“M-m-me t-t-oo.” Beverly looks at him with confusion, and Bill clears his throat, and tries again. “I lo-o-v-e-e yo-u too, Be-v-v,” he admits.

Then.

Oh.

Her world gives an impossible spin, like in a skateboard.

“Bill—”

“I-I-I sai-d-d it befo-before, _down there_. I th-thou-u-ght I wa-s-s cle-e-ar,” he continues, and traces a path between her fingers, he smiles shyly. White teeth, full moon. “I'm e-eleven years o-ol-old, Bev, what... wh-a-at else c-can I gi-i-i-ve y-you, be-besid-e-s my w-or-ords?” He stops for a few seconds to admire the landscape, and returns his gaze to her. “May-m-aybe I sh-o-o-ou-ould hav-e giv-given you som-ething m-more than-n an o-ol-d shi-shir-rt tho.”

“No! That was—!”

“But what we have here, Miss' Scarlet and Big Bill are having a romantic scene not suitable for children under thirteen!” Richie exclaims in his texan accent. And coming out of absolute nothingness. They both scream, separating instantly.

A few steps away their friends unsuccessfully contain their laughter, huddled in a bush. Beverly glares at them, she doesn’t notice that she’s crying until Bill lends her a handkerchief. Ashamed she takes it.

“Don’t be embarrased, Bev, honey, precious Molly! We were waiting for this!” Richie continues. “When will the wedding be, then? You have to invite me! I’ll be our best man. You have to invite Stan The Man too, although his parents killed Jesus.”

Stan gives him a nudge.

“You guys were spying us!” Bev accuses, trying to stifle a laugh. It has become a habit for them to laugh even in the worst circumstances, as a defense. “God, you guys were here all the damn time!”

Should she get angry? Cry more? Laugh like a hysteric?

They are only a group of seven children— all a little bit crazy, all a little bit sane— not exactly broken, but damaged, trying to enjoy (their summer, their childhood, their life). And they’re young and inexperienced.

So, what can they do now?

Stan begins to chase Richie, who keeps insisting on making a wedding cake and being the best man. Eddie hugs himself, his face is cherry-red and he cannot stop laughing, his inhaler is in his left pocket, untouched. Ben shares a meaningful look with Bill (“I'm going to take care of her”, “...I know”). Mike joins the others, running and screaming in joy.

There is no doubt about their weirdness. Of all of them. And yet — looking at them — together, Bev feels something like tickling all over her body. Like peace. _Almost, almost_.

Her hand seeks for Bill’s, and finds it (always always always). Bill entwines their fingers, and smiles to her.

(“Your words are what I appreciate most Bill, they fill the silence in my bruises, soothing and magic.

Please never doubt your words.”)

But the question persists, what can they do now?

Bev looks towards the sun. That light bulb that has been turned on again. That light bulb that shines, even in the deepest darkness.

What can they do. The usual, of course.

_They survive_ _—_ _they try to be happy_ _—_ _they face the fear_ _—_

_(they love)_.


End file.
